Looks Like a Spanish Horse
by SoujisBlackCat
Summary: South Italy, late 1800s: horseback riding is changing forever. But the wonderful horse Romano rides through this change is a gift from Spain, and he's afraid it might be taken back, until he makes a surprising connection. Spain/Romano if you like.


A/N: Just so you don't think a hoofpick is some kind of torture device, it's a small, pointy metal object used to get rocks and packed dirt out of a horse's hooves. Enjoy the story!

Romano steered his horse to the jump, keeping his body in balance, raised well above the saddle. The horse's gait was perfect, rhythmic and forward and full of springs. The top of each moment of suspension was like a jump in itself. On the approach, he saw that he was a little slow, and at a touch of his leg his mount surged forward, opening his stride for a perfect takeoff. The jump itself was magnificent, as always; Romano gave his horse the reins and the stallion stretched his neck over the fence, rounding his back and landing with a slight flourish and toss of the head, enough to tell anyone how much he loved what he was doing.

Romano kept his hands forward until he felt the horse's back legs hit the ground, then pulled him around to face the audience. Today it consisted of two Germans, a Frenchman, a Belgian, and three men from Romano's own territory. All had come to learn a new style of riding, with him as their teacher. He cleared his throat.

"You see, by using this method, I encourage my horse to use the same jumping form as he does without a rider." Romano used his business voice as his horse pranced in place. The interpreters on the ground got to their jobs. "Now this time," Romano continued, "I want you to pay attention to my leg position, and the way I stay above the saddle. To get the highest, roundest jump, you want the horse to have no pressure on its back. It's better for a horse to land evenly on its front feet than to land on its back feet in any form."

Romano nudged his horse's sides again, and the grey arched his neck and bounced forward with joyous strides. Romano hated how he sounded giving these lectures, regurgitating less-eloquent versions of the phrases Master Caprilli had told him over and over in his own lessons. But at least he knew that, due to his training with such a genius, his riding could speak for itself.

He went again the same jump, taking a slightly sharper turn; again the grey stallion's feet hardly touched the ground. This time they took off closer to the jump, but it didn't matter. The horse rocked back on his haunches and cleared it easily, Romano staying with his motion the whole time.

He came to a halt again, addressing his students. "It's important not to just stand up in the stirrups – you have to close your hip at the right time. I waited for him to jump there before I closed my hip, so I would be with his motion. Too early and you're ahead of it, too late and you're behind. Now, if someone would raise the bar. . . "

Someone walked out to do as he'd asked, and the stallion, bright-eyed, snorted in anticipation of his new challenge.

After another few jumps, each bigger and rounder than the last, the lesson was done, and Romano returned to the stables. Much as he wanted to stay on that horse forever, he knew he couldn't.

It shook its large head as he dismounted, long white mane rippling like a feathery curtain. Romano gave its arched neck a pat as he slipped the reins over its head to lead it away.

None of Romano's favorite things could ever compare to this horse. No gun, no car he had ever used could be as sleek and shiny or consistent in performance. No mobster or soldier working under him could ever be as obedient. And no work of art could be as graceful and striking. Maybe Romano could find a tomato that could give him the same enjoyment, short term. But that was a totally different kind of thing.

The only similarity was in the roundness. Perfect tomatoes were ripe and round, with a round, full-bodied flavor. And everything about this horse was round as well; his well-formed haunches, his arched neck and muscled topline, his gaits that gave the impression of a springy ball, and his jump – God, his jump – the roundest in Italy if not the world. His eyes were round too, olive-colored, and with a soft, intelligent gaze.

When people complimented the beautiful horse, Romano would nod and agree, without hinting at where the gorgeous stallion had come from. The problem came when they asked, "Which stud is he from?" or worse, when they said, "He's Spanish, isn't he?"

Romano hated to admit that technically, the horse wasn't his. A normal horseman, perhaps, wouldn't have minded – and that's what the questioners thought he was, an average rider, not a country – but Romano wanted badly to take credit for his accomplishments. He didn't want to tell them that he had nothing to do with this horse's breeding, and it was all thanks to his former boss, who'd given it to him just a few years ago. This stallion was Pura Raza Espanola, of a famous bloodline – the best in Spain's already admirable herd. But Romano wanted everyone convinced that Spain's influence was gone from Italy, and he wasn't telling.

Not that he himself hadn't wondered why on earth Spain would give Romano his best horse, one he could have used to attain great success himself. Romano had come up with a few reasons, but none of them made sense, and a few sounded more like conspiracy theories. He didn't usually go for conspiracy theories, but he didn't doubt that they were possibilities. After all, the mafia had taught him that you can never be too careful in placing your trust.

He tied his horse outside the stable, where the sun could shine through its silky mane and dry the sweat on its neck and flanks. Romano gave it a pat on the shoulder, and it turned its head to look at him as he headed into the barn to find a cloth to rub it down with. That was another thing he loved about this horse: the look it gave him, at once noble and humble, respectful and admiring of its rider. People said horses couldn't feel emotion, but Romano had been around long enough to know that wasn't true. This horse _loved _him. It was more love than he usually got from anyone, especially since his annoyingly friendly brother always soaked up everyone's affection.

When Romano came back outside, cloth in hand, he found that his horse wasn't alone. Instead, Spain was standing brazenly beside _his_ stable, cooing and scratching the whorl on _his_ stallion's forehead. Even worse, the horse seemed to be enjoying it.

"Gosh," Spain said, still not noticing Romano, "what's Lovi been feeding you? I think you've grown since I last saw you!"

"Oats and hay, bastard, the same as you fed him. Now what're you doing here?"

Spain ignored Romano's lack of greeting and responded as if he'd been there the whole time. "I just came to see how you're doing, Lovi. You've made quite a name for yourself, you know. If you do much more, people will figure out who you really are!" He turned, smiling brightly, leaving a hand on the horse's still-damp neck. Romano wanted that hand _off_.

"Shut up. I'm nobody to them. They just know me as one of Caprilli's students." He focused his harshest glare at Spain's hand. The horse was his now, and Spain ought to be considerate . . . wait. When had Spain showed up? He hadn't seen any Spaniards in the audience, but . . .

"Did you . . . you didn't watch my demonstration, did you?"

Spain shook his head, but his smile didn't fade. "Nope. I came too late. Could you show me now?" He took a step towards Romano, letting his hand fall to his side. Romano relaxed a little, but the request was infuriating.

"Of course not!" he said. "See how sweaty he is? If you want to learn anything, you should try not showing up so goddamn late for once!"

"Hey, whoa, I was joking!" Spain said in his most laid-back tone of voice. "It's okay. I'm not too interested in jumping, anyway."

"Yeah, 'cause all you teach your horses to do is walk like this." Romano stepped forward, lifting each leg so his toe came up to hip level, imitating one of Spain's favorite 'horse tricks'. "You should wake up and come to the modern world sometime. We do useful things with horses now. Let me through so I can groom _my _horse!"

Spain put his hand on his heart with an utterly stupid-looking fake pout on his face. "Why're you so grouchy today? That last one _hurt,_ you know." But he stepped aside anyway.

"Why wouldn't I be grouchy when you always come out here to annoy me?" Romano growled.

"Because you like it when I visit? Especially since it's been so long . . ."

"Do you know the meaning of a _rhetorical question_?"

"Nope, guess I don't! Wanna tell me?"

"It's –" But Romano realized an explanation would be futile, so he just released an exasperated sigh and started rubbing his cloth in circles on the wet patches of the horse's coat. Sensing his distress, it turned its head, looking at him again with its usual gentleness and eyes full of love. It seemed to say, 'You're kind to me, and I'm happy, and that's all that matters'. That made everything better. Romano even smiled a little, but he made sure his head was turned away from Spain.

Spain, meanwhile, had been standing by uncharacteristically silently. What was he doing over there? Romano glanced over to see a smile on his face that was softer but somehow warmer than usual. Romano hadn't seen that expression on Spain as far as he could remember, but it still looked oddly familiar.

"Are you staring at me?" Romano asked.

"I'm just noticing what good care you take of my horse, Lovi!" The old smile came back.

That use of 'my horse' made Romano angry again. "He's not yours anymore," he said. "You _gave_ him to me."

"I did. But it doesn't mean I can't still visit him, right?" Spain cocked his head.

"No . . . but if you like him so much, why give him away?" Romano was sick of arguing, but he couldn't let the point go. Because the horse was _his_ now, not Spain's –

"Because you deserve him," Spain replied, smile softening again. " You're a very good horseman. Oh, and speaking of gifts – "

Romano was thrown off by the transition, but that compliment, delivered so seriously, actually made him feel a little warm inside. And what was this about a gift? He watched as Spain reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a round, ripe tomato. But instead of giving it to Romano, he turned to the stallion.

"Here you are, big boy," he said, waving it under the horse's nose. "Say, do you give him tomatoes, Lovi?"

"N-no! Of course not! I've never met a horse that liked tomatoes!" Romano was actually terribly embarrassed, not knowing the likes and dislikes of a horse he insisted was his. But he was not going to let it show if he could help it. Unfortunately, he couldn't – at least, couldn't stop himself from blushing.

Not to mention, he wanted a tomato too.

"You look like a tomato yourself!" Spain laughed. "And watch, he'll work for them!" Spain tapped the back of the horse's foreleg, and it quickly lifted it high in the air, pointing its toe straight out before letting it sink softly to the ground. "That's the first step to training for my special walk!" Spain said. "And he still remembers it! Good boy!" He let the horse have the tomato, holding it as it was devoured in big, sloppy bites. Romano looked down.

"Hey, Lovi. Lovi, don't worry." Spain came over to stand next to Romano again. "I have one for you, too!" he said, reaching into his other pocket. He handed an equally gorgeous tomato to Romano, who took it rather awkwardly, noticing that some of the horse slobber on Spain's hand had stuck to it.

"Thank you," he said grudgingly.

"Any day, Lovi," Spain said, patting him on the head with that slight, warm smile. "You've really grown over these years, you know?"

Trying to place the expression, Romano focused in on Spain's olive eyes and saw, for a second, a familiar nobility, respect, kindness, admiration . . . love? Was that it, that the way Spain looked at him was just like . . . ?

No. He did not just compare Spain to his horse. A country and an animal, looking at him with the same eyes? Impossible.

"But, since you've gotten two great gifts from me now . . . why don't you repay me by letting me take you to lunch? How about that?" Spain asked him, snapping him back to attention. Spain's happy-go-lucky, super-bright grin was back, leaving Romano wondering if he was going crazy, seeing what he thought he saw before.

"Okay . . . " said Romano. It was common courtesy, at least. "But not before I've put my horse away!"

"Ohh, that," Spain said, as if he'd forgotten. But Romano knew he'd never forget a horse. "Well, how about you keep drying him and I go find a brush or a hoofpick or something?"

"Oh no. You take the towel, I get the hoofpick," Romano responded. He shoved the towel in Spain's direction, and the other country took it. Sure, he didn't want Spain touching his horse. But he didn't want him tearing up his barn, looking for something he couldn't locate, either. And after Spain's compliments, and that look in his eyes – Romano didn't think he was going to take back his gifts anytime soon.

Romano cradled the tomato in his hand – it was just the perfect size – thinking he had to put it somewhere for safekeeping. Maybe it had horse slobber on it, sure, but that just showed that he had not one, but two wonderful, round gifts from Spain to treasure for as long as they lasted. He still wasn't sure why Spain thought he deserved them, but as long as he thought so – well, that was okay.

A/N: whew. I've never written either Spain or Romano (successfully) before, so please tell me how I did.

Horsey/History Notes: This story is set during the late 1800s, when Europe was transitioning to a new style of riding. It started with an Italian horseman, Frederico Caprilli, who studied the riding and jumping styles of Steppe horsemen and proposed that European cavalrymen use the same methods to help them traverse the outdoor landscape. Before Caprilli, riders were advised to sit and shift their weight back when their horse jumped, to encourage it to 'take the weight off its hind feet'. But anyone who's seen a riderless horse jump knows that horses don't ever land on their hind feet. Their front ones are designed to take impact. Caprilli advised that riders shift forward and close their hip to stay with their horses' motion instead, and this is the system we use today. It also helps a horse jump 'round', meaning with a round shape through its nek and back as it clears the fence. Caprilli's training center was in south Italy, hence his closeness to Romano.

Pura Raza Espanola means Purebred Spanish Horse. The graceful, athletic, long-maned grey stallion who stars in this story is an Andalusian, Spain's most famous breed. They are gorgeous horses – just look them up – and though they excel at the arts of classical riding, they are pretty good jumpers as well. The Spanish walk, which Romano makes fun of and Spain shows off, is a trick (for lack of a better word) that horses in Spain and Portugal are taught. The horse lifts its front legs high and straight in front of it, like a sort of exaggerated march.

Anyway, I hope I got the characters to come through despite my rabid horse-fangirling. :)


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